


Red Constellations

by Jqck



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, My friends will kill me if i write another angsty story XD, because i owe people happy endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 16:05:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17046686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jqck/pseuds/Jqck
Summary: This drabble is a gift to Cherry, another member of the discord server I'm in. I hope you'll like this one! <3 This is my first BID407 work and I've been having a writer's block since I finished the Crew of Light, so I'd truly appreciate if you guys go gentle with me on this one haha





	Red Constellations

A bead of sweat drew a glistening line down on Marcel’s temple. His stance was a pose of fake hostility and concealed terror. His arms were just down his side, framing his still body. He wanted to grab something sharp, draw the metal pipe at the corner, snatch the pen that dangled from his chest pocket, but all eyes were focussed to his hands, wary in every twitch and sways. He couldn’t do anything; he was outnumbered.  
  
  
“You guys are petty fucks. It’s a fucking game!” Marcel blurted out when the men in blue hockey uniform stepped forward. He inched backward, his back meeting the wall of the alleyway. In front of him were four hockey players, opponents of Evan’s team earlier. Marcel, Scotty, and Delirious were there to cheer for their friend. At one point, one of the opponents played dirty, resulting in Evan receiving a couple of injuries. Of course, the three of them erupted in anger, Delirious and Marcel being the loudest. Apparently, these four musketeers were watching them.  
  
The person closest to Marcel—a green-eyed buff— slung his hockey stick over his shoulder, his head tilting upward, irises scrutinizing Marcel. “We lost. We’re angry. You were annoying. We found each other here. There’s no way this opportunity isn't knocking on our door.” The hockey stick was now swung down to be a cane for the man. “Are you ready?”  
  
Marcel bared his teeth in defiance. “Fucking hit me. I dare you.”  
  
The end of the alleyway was a crevice in the town the sunlight couldn’t reach. Its shadows just dance during the day, and now that it was almost night, its walls seemed drenched in ink. The only light it allowed in was of the street light in the middle of the block. Enough to see the glint of anger in the eyes of these people. Enough to see the dark shadow falling on to their faces.  
  
And Marcel knew then.  
  
He heard a smack first, before his left ear exploded with pain. He screamed. He swayed to the right. The hand that was supposed to snatch the pen from his chest and use it as a weapon was now holding the side of his head, sticky liquid flowing in between his fingers. His vision blurred—all he could see were shoes.  
  
  
So he went for the shoes—more specifically, feet and legs.  
  
Marcel dove downwards like an ocean wave crashing down to the shore. He was swift, pulled as many legs as possible despite the nausea that made him numb to other senses. There were two thuds—he didn't hear it; his body felt the tremor of the ground when two people hit the concrete floor.  
  
A hard thing hit his spine and he howled in pain. Marcel doubled over, writhing on the concrete. His hitching breath blowing the dirt of the ground away from his face. A kick landed onto his stomach. A grunt escaped from him. Someone booted his face and the force cracked the bone of his nose.  
  
The attacks kept coming, breathing hurt him too much. His lids automatically shut as if they were keeping Marcel from seeing the horrid assault to him. Sweat, tears, blood were all over his face but he couldn't differentiate the three any longer. His throat was raw from screaming. Which was up. Which was down.  
  
Where did it hurt?  
  
Where it didn't hurt?  
  
Marcel took it all, until a voice echoed in the alleyway.  
  
"GET THE FUCK OFF HIM!"  
  
Like magic, the blows stopped. Marcel dared open his eyes, the air stinging them, but he had a full uninterrupted view of the night. While there were yelling, grunting, thuds, and angry cursing around him, he peacefully watched each star surfaced from the navy blue sky. One by one they revealed themselves to Marcel as if they were counting.  
  
The amount of seconds draining out of his life.  
  
The amount of regrets he had for not telling Scotty how he felt.  
  
"DELIRIOUS, GET A FUCKING AMBULANCE. He's here and he's fucking dying!"  
  
"I'm on it. Stay with him! Evan and his team will chase the scumbags."  
  
There was suddenly a light in the alleyway so white it was almost blinding. Then Scotty's face slid into his vision. Worry wrinkled his forehead. There was blood on his jaw. There was a bruise under his right eye, and it was a shade lighter than the night sky.  
  
"You're going to be okay. Help is coming. Just don't sleep, Marcel. Please. For me."  
  
Marcel opened his mouth to speak, but sticky blood rushed out first before he could ever mutter a word. He coughed and choked. He tried to spit out the blood but they kept coming. He was dying, and he couldn’t say what he had to say.  
  
Tears brimmed on his eyes as his shaking hand reached Scotty's face. Marcel wiped the blood staining his skin, wiped the tears the flowed across the man's cheeks, wiped the worry away from his features, wishing he could erase the bruises and the sadness in his eyes too.  
  
He coughed again for trying to speak.  
  
"I understand, Marcel. I do. I really do.” Scotty sobbed. “Please don't move anymore."  
  
But Scotty didn't understand. And Marcel didn't have a way to make him understand.  
  
So when his vision tunneled, he knew Scotty's face would be the last thing he would see. And this was the first time he wasn't happy to bring the image to his sleep.  
  
\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

 

Scotty was staring at the white sheet that had been blanketing Marcel's legs and torso for a whole day, evading to look at the white shirt draped on the chair at the other side of the bed, a pen still dangled from the chest pocket. But Scotty didn't have to look. Last night, he had memorized the splatters of blood on it. He had figured if they traced constellations—no, Orion was closest but there wasn’t enough dots for the bow. He had counted them—407, including the ones on the pen. He had pointed out to the nurse which one was the darkest dot of blood—the one near the second button of the shirt.  
  
Scotty hadn't slept yet. Did he even eat? Did he even call his family yet to let them know that he was okay? Did he even acknowledge that he was cold?  
  
Warm or cold, he would tremble whenever he remembered the feeling of Marcel covered in his own blood and tears, his eyes dulling like a dying star. And there was nothing Scotty could do to stop the blood from coming out of the man's mouth, to stop the closing of his lids, to stop the time.  
  
It was killing him too for being so helpless.  
  
And now he was in the room of white walls, white ceiling, white floor, white flowers in a white vase on a bedside table. The curtains were white, too. The light even more so. The only thing that was glaring in contrast was the green spiking line on a black background of the heart monitor.  
  
He would make sure he would give at least one punch to each person who did this to Marcel. He would make them chew their own teeth. He was willing to commit a crime himself so he would be sent into the same jail cell and he would drown each one of them in the toilet—  
  
"The first thing I see is an angry face of a motherfucker."  
  
Scotty's eyes darted to Marcel. The man was pale, but his eyes were open.  
  
Half-lidded but open.  
  
"Well," Scotty brushed his arm over his eyes to wipe the tears that started forming. Then his shoulder slumped. He smiled at Marcel. "The motherfucker isn't angry anymore. He's happy. He is incredibly happy right now."  
  
"I love you, Scott."  
  
"I told you I understand, you dummy. I felt it."  
  
"Then I could die now."  
  
Scotty shook his head, his hand reaching for Marcel's. "I love you, too, shithead."  
  
Marcel blinked at him. Time ticked by, and the man didn't move.  
  
Scotty sported a big grin. "You still wanna die?"  
  
"Not anymore, Scotty. Not anymore."

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how to write fluff without hurt or angst, okay? XD I'm sorry. haha


End file.
